The Quest: A Novel

remind him that he wasn’t hired to write an opinion column. But he’d written it because he—and thus his writing—had been transformed.
    In the afternoon, he’d taken a long walk, first to the Piazza Venezia where Mussolini used to stand on the balcony of the Palazzo, making a fool of himself
Urbi et Orbi
—to the city and the world. But the city and the world should have taken him more seriously, as Father Armano had at the blessing of the guns.
    Next, he walked through the baths of Caracalla, the mother of all Roman spas, then over to the Fascist-built Foreign Ministry where the looted stone steles from Axum sat out front, a monument to European imperialism and good taste in stolen art. Rome, in fact, was filled with looted treasures going back over two thousand years, and, he admitted, they all looked good in their extrinsic settings. And in return for what they’d taken, the Romans had built roads and bridges all over their empire, amphitheaters and baths, temples and forums. So what Mussolini had done in Ethiopia was just a continuation of a long and venerable tradition of imperial stealing and giving. The Vatican, however, had planned a snatch of the Holy Grail without so much as an IOU.
    The point of his walk, aside from physical exercise, was to get his head into the right mindset regarding the story—which was turning into a book—that he was writing about Father Armano, the black monastery, and the Holy Grail.
    That story, however, would never see the light of day unless or until he went back to Ethiopia to discover the ending. Or, he supposed, it could be published posthumously, with an editor’s epilogue regarding the fate of the author.
    Now, Jean, the attractive lady next to him at the bar, was looking through her guidebook and said, “It says here that the Piazza Navona is all decorated for Christmas.”
    “I actually walked through there last night. Worth seeing.”
    “All right. Campo de’ Fiori?”
    “Produce market by day, meat market by night.”
    “All right…” She went back to her Roman guidebook, and Purcell went back to his Ethiopian book. The questions raised in his story, and in his mind, were: Who owns a two-thousand-year-old relic? Obviously, whoever has it owns it. But how did the present owner get the object? And does the object, if it is priceless, actually belong to the world?
    The other question, of course, had to do with the authenticity of the object. Purcell had no doubt that whatever it was that now sat in the black monastery had no mystical powers, despite Father Armano’s claim that it healed his wound and his soul, whatever that was. But the cup could be authentic in the sense that it was the actual chalice used by Christ at the Last Supper. Or it could be an object of faith, like most religious relics he’d seen in Rome and elsewhere.
    He recalled what he’d once seen in the small chapel of Quo Vadis on the Appian Way, outside the gate of the city wall: a piece of black basalt paving stone, in which was a footprint. Specifically, the footprint of Jesus Christ who had appeared to Peter on the Appian road as the saint was fleeing for his life from Rome. Peter, stunned at seeing his risen Lord, blurted, “
Domine, quo vadis?
” Where are you going, Lord? And Christ had replied, “To Rome, Peter, to be crucified for a second time.” And Peter, feeling guilt at fleeing, and understanding what Christ was saying to him, returned to Rome to meet his fate and was crucified.
    The story, Purcell understood, was apocryphal, and the outlineof a foot in the paving stone was not actually made by Jesus’s size nine sandal. But an Italian friend once said to him about the stone of Quo Vadis, “What is real? What is true? What do you believe?”
Quo Vadis?
    Well, he thought, maybe he was going back to Ethiopia to be crucified a second time. And that depended on Henry Mercado, who was half an hour late for his date with destiny. Purcell knew he was coming; Mercado had no choice, just as Peter had no choice.
    Purcell ordered another Jack Daniel’s and another red wine for the lady. The bar was full—best view in Rome—but the dining tables were almost empty—not the best food in Rome.
    Jean, aged about forty, was a blonde Brit, and looked nothing like Vivian, but she made him think of Vivian because she was a woman. She was interesting and interested, and they were both staying at the Forum, alone, and what the hell, it was Christmas in Rome. Coffee